


Classic Art Has Had Its Day

by politelydeclined



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Paintings, Pining, Post-Apocalypse, Renaissance Artists, aziraphale is oblivious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-15 09:54:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19293337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/politelydeclined/pseuds/politelydeclined
Summary: Aziraphale visits Crowley's flat after the Apocalypse, and he discovers his art collection.Alternatively, Renaissance artists help an angel realize a demon's love for him because he's too oblivious to notice it himself)





	1. Realisation

**Author's Note:**

> 𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘱𝘰𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘺𝘱𝘴𝘦, 𝘈𝘻𝘪𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘊𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘦𝘺'𝘴 𝘧𝘭𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘤𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘊𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘦𝘺'𝘴 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘉𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘶𝘯𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘴𝘬𝘦𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘙𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦. 𝘈𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯 𝘌𝘥𝘦𝘯'𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭. - [analogsaquarium](https://analogsaquarium.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr

The fact that Aziraphale loves the finest things in life is really not surprising for anyone. Food, wine, clothes, even books: everything he owns is the best, and only the best is allowed in his life. He’s the most hedonistic angel you could ever bump into, that’s all. He’s on Earth to collect every beautiful object he can find, as long as it catches his interests obviously, and he has a knack for owning first editions of every book in his shop.

Crowley, on the other hand, doesn’t collect things. Well, he doesn’t collect  _material_  things. Even his plants are more of an outlet for him, rather than something to take pride in. His own personal Eden, in a way.

The only mean he has to self-flagellate himself over his Fall.

So, when Aziraphale walks into his flat, he’s not surprised to find it so bare and unfurnished. Hell, he wasn’t even sure Crowley had a table in there (or a chair)

It takes him around five seconds to spot the Leonardo sketch on the wall, but when he does, his heart starts flipping in his chest.

“Good Lord, Crowley- that’s  _authentic?_ I never managed to meet Leonardo, but this- how did you get your hands on it?” he whispers in awe, walking closer to the painting and raising slightly his hand as if to touch it, before withdrawing shyly.

“He gave it to me,” Crowley replies, not even glancing at the sketch, his eyes still hidden by the sunglasses, focused on the amazed angel. “When I was in Florence. Lovely city.”

Aziraphale stares at him with his mouth agape. “You.  _You_ were friends with Leonardo?”

Crowley shrugs. “I don’t think  _friends_  is the right term. He asked me to be his… paramour, of sorts.” he smiles fondly at the memory. “He was a genius, and he had lots of lovers. We became confidants, and he understood when I told him I was not interested in pursuing a more physical relationship.”

If angels had a heart, Aziraphale would be dead already. God, he can’t believe his own ears. Surely Crowley is just messing with him.

“If you don’t believe me, look at the inscription.”

There, in Leonardo’s unmistakable handwriting, a dedication recites:  _Al mio amico Antonio._

To my friend Anthony.

Maybe he  _is_  dead, and this was some weird, post mortem dream he was currently in. It wouldn’t be the weirdest thing.

But no, he’s quite sure he’s not dead, and Crowley knew Leonardo  _personally_ -

“Wait,” he exclaims out of the blue. “Why didn’t you accept his offer? I mean, I thought you of all people would-”

“I couldn’t possibly give him what he wanted- devotion. He was a great man, and a good friend, but my heart was never going to be  _his_. He knew that, and respected it.” Now his voice is less soft and blunter. Even harsh, maybe?

Crowley turns around, letting out a small sigh.

“It’s been a long day, Angel. We should rest for a while, ” he mutters. “Are you coming?”

Aziraphale nods, still dumbfounded. What did Crowley mean?

There’s no time for these questions: Aziraphale feels the exhaustion of six-thousand years downing on him, and although he’s never been one to sleep, he’s quite sure he could do so for a good few centuries. He follows Crowley down the hall, every closed door lighting a spark of curiosity in him, until they reach a bedroom.

Unlike the rest of the flat, this room exudes comfort and coziness, with a heavy woolen blanket resting on the bed and a few plants on one of the bedside tables. The bed itself is covered in a tartan bedding, not much different from the kind Aziraphale likes so much, and the angel shrugs it off by blaming a last-minute miracle from Crowley to make him feel more comfortable.

He smiles fondly at the  _Casino Royale_  copy next to the lamp, and his smile grows bigger as he notices the demon’s blush.

“Oh Crowley, there’s no need to be embarrassed about your Ian Fleming obsession. It’s endearing, really-”

Crowley groans and hides the book in the first drawer.

“Shut up.”

Aziraphale laughs affectionately at Crowley’s crimson cheeks.

“There’s just- I only have one bedroom, but you can stay here,” Crowley mumbles, lowering his eyes. He’s glad he hasn’t taken the glasses off.

Aziraphale glances at him confused. “Why don’t you miracle one up?”

“I’m afraid I’m not really strong enough to do any kind of magic anytime soon. The Big One before drained me.”

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry! I should’ve realized. Well, it’s no bind- we can just share a bed.”

Crowley snickers. “Won’t that be a tad _too fast_  for your liking?”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes and takes off his jacket before lying down on the left side of the bed. He thinks he sees Crowley gulp, before the demon joins him.

They lay there for a few minutes, not close enough to touch, but still enough to feel each other’s presence.

Aziraphale stops breathing.

“This is new,” he whispers at some point.

“It’s been six thousand years. I think sharing a bed is fine at this point.” Crowley replies, his voice heavy with sleep. He sounds so cute that Aziraphale could die from it. He just chuckles, then closes his eyes.

Five minutes after, they’re both deep in the arms of Morpheus. It doesn’t last long - not for the angel at least - and he only manages to rest for a couple of hours.

He gets up quietly, wandering down the hall, snooping in different rooms. They all look the same: bare, cold and unwelcoming. He thinks that Crowley must really have a problem with this whole punishing himself thing. Forcing himself into an environment he hates just to make himself suffer.

He thinks for a second that the flat seems quite a lot like Heaven - spare and unpleasant - but it makes his heart ache. Does Crowley miss being an angel? Does he really regret Falling?

~~Does he miss his Heavenly home?~~

He walks into a room, turning the light on. As soon as he glances around, he feels the ground disappear from under his feet.

Sketches. Sketches and paintings are all over the place, ranging from Impressionist paintings to Baroque ones, a collection to rival the Louvre’s.

A whole wall is covered in older pictures, not unlike Leonardo’s one, and many of them have some kind of inscription.

He almost falls to his knees.

“Good Lord-” he whispers in awe. There’s a Michelangelo on his left, half-covered by what looks like a Raphael, and they’re  _originals_. Not actual paintings, but sketches, the first attempts of some of the most famous works of art in the world. Some of these are new to him, and he realizes that they’re the ones that didn’t make it.

There’s one, quite hidden behind another stack, that catches his eye. He carefully takes it out, and his mouth falls wide open.

It’s  _them_.

Two figures on a high wall, in front of a luxurious garden. One of them has white wings, and is using one to cover the other person from the rain. The second one has dark, crow-like wings, and he’s gazing lovingly at the angel. In a corner, a quick scribble.

_Che l'angelo possa accorgersi del tuo devoto sguardo._

May the angel notice your loving gaze.


	2. Act

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sooner or later, we all have to confront our feelings.

Aziraphale can’t take his eyes off the beautiful charcoal drawing. With a careful finger, he follows every line, from the top of the trees to the bottom of the walls, up to their unfolded wings and down to the writing, again and again, until his eyes start blending strokes together and his hand gets a strange tingle.

He doesn’t realize he has tears running down his cheeks until one falls on the delicate paper he’s holding. With a jerky motion, he moves it away, scared of possibly ruining the painting. He can only imagine how important this is to his friend, and he’d fight heaven’s army rather than hurt Crowley again.

God, six thousand years.

Six thousand years, and he's only noticed now.

Thinking back, he feels like an idiot: Crowley had never even tried to hide his feelings, yet he’d been blinded by fear and prejudice.

After another few minutes - well, as far as he knows it could've been hours - he hears steps coming from the bedroom, and finds himself surprisingly nervous about confronting his friend. 

Crowley's voice isn't loud as usual: he's quieter, still half-asleep, and he sounds frighteningly _small_. 

"Did you like it?" he whispers from where he's standing on the doorstep, his left side resting against the wooden entrance. He looks exhausted, but in his eyes there's a sad resignation that feels like a punch to the gut. 

Aziraphale stares at him silently for a moment, before shaking his head vehemently. 

"This is- It's beautiful. I didn't _like_ it, I absolutely loved it. Who made it?" 

"A friend of mine, Raphael. Damn good painter. And a way better attitude than Michelangelo."

Aziraphale's head starts spinning with excitement. All these artists he hasn't managed to meet are still alive and well in Crowley's memory. He could spend ages just listening to his friend talk about them, but he knows there are more pressing matters at hand. 

"You love me, don't you?" He asks, cringing at how accusing and belittling his word choice is. In his defense, he's really bad at improving heart-to-heart speeches. "I mean, you've loved me for so long, and I never realized- I'm sorry I hurt you, my dear."

Crowley flinches at the words, and closes his eyes. It's almost too painful to look at the angel, who's still standing in the middle of the room, holding the most precious object he owns. 

He sighs deeply, aware that he can't lie about his feelings: not anymore. Aziraphale knows, and he's going to hate him for it. 

"Don't call me that," he begs. He hopes it'd sound confident, but he isn't surprised when his tone comes out as pleading. "Don't call me that when you don't mean it, angel."

 _I can't take it. Can't you see how hard it is?_ He desperately wants to add, yet he doesn't. He doesn't want to deal with any more pity than he's already getting from Aziraphale. 

The angel just shakes his head, and repeats it slowly: " _My dear,_ " he whispers, putting so much emphasis on those two words that Crowley's heart skips a beat. "My dear, of course I mean it." His voice grows softer, and he lets himself smile. He can see the way Crowley's heart leaps in his throat, and it makes his own ache. To see the tangible proof of how much his friend had suffered because of his blindness, and to be able to watch how love-starved he is, makes him want to weep in sympathy. He knows he won't appreciate that, though, so he tries his best to calm down. 

"Aziraphale-" 

"I've loved you for years, Crowley. And I was so blind I only let myself accept it in that church, but if you let me, I'd show you just how much I love you. How much I cherish you. How much I adore you." Every word is accompanied by a gentle and careful step towards his shaking friend, whose hands haven't stopped trembling during his brief speech, and his eyes are finally free to show the extent of his feelings. 

Crowley shakes his head. "It's not over. We're gonna have to talk about this, and we're gonna talk a lot. But for now- can you just…" _hold me?_

Aziraphale - clever, brilliant Aziraphale - understands, and he quickly moves to his side, holding him the way he's always wanted to, keeping him safe from the world, cradling him against his chest and finally, _finally_ letting himself embrace his love. 

 

From the corner, abandoned on the floor, a charcoal drawing stares at them, its characters exchanging an affectionate look, mirroring the one being traded by their counterparts. 

 

 _Finally_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it! Stay tuned for any new work, and if you have requests/prompts (or if you just wanna chat) here's my [Tumblr](https://mr-anthony-janthony-crowley.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Send me prompts/requests or just message me on my [Tumblr](https://mr-anthony-janthony-crowley.tumblr.com/)


End file.
